


Altough it could exist, it's absent; that being so, it's an accidental gap

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: M/M, Nonsense, Pre-Slash, Smoking, Standing There In Freezing Cold Waiting For The Bus, Talking, Tenderness, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: A conversation about god knows what in the middle of nowhere.
Relationships: Ginger Fish/Tim Sköld
Kudos: 3





	Altough it could exist, it's absent; that being so, it's an accidental gap

**Author's Note:**

> Hello.
> 
> This is uh... Uh...
> 
> Look, just don't use it as your guide into linguistic concepts of coziness across different cultures, because that part is intentionally mixed up. Read a proper article.
> 
> Apart from that, it is genuinely just a conversation that happened in my brain. I don't know where that middle of nowhere is. I don't know where that bus is and why it isn't there. I don't know why it's snowing. Don't know anything. I only know a bit about the jacket. Maybe. Maybe not. :)
> 
> Again, English is not my native language, everything is fictional, it's just a feeling.
> 
> Be well.

***

He is about to say something - maybe; maybe not - when Tim sighs audibly, shoving the cigarette package back in his pocket, his shoulder brushing against Ginger's.

"Fuck," Tim mutters, turning to look at him.

Ginger offers him a weak smile.

Tim eyes him up and down, lingering on his neck. Ginger shifts and shivers, trying to hide the exposed skin in the collar of his jacket that is clearly unsuitable for this weather.

It's snowing and it is windy.

"You sure you don't want me to give you something to cover that?" Tim asks.

Tim's asked this before. Ginger refused, because what could Tim give him? Tim said it was his T-shirt, but... It's snowing and it is windy and it is freezing cold and simply thinking of Tim taking off his highly suitable jacket and then his T-shirt when there is nothing else on him is...

"No, really, thanks," Ginger says, shaking his head, and moves his shoulders once again, even though it doesn't help his icy neck at all. "They should be here soon, so..."

Tim just looks at him for a couple of seconds, eyebrows raised.

"Okay, come here," he says, shoving the cigarette package that's again appeared in his hands in his pocket.

Ginger blinks.

"Come here," Tim says with emphasis, stepping closer, to stand behind him. "You and your blue neck. You know it's really fucking blue already? Like, cobalt. With a bit of indigo thrown in."

His hands land on Ginger's neck which he sincerely doubts is blue. It's simply cold.

Tim's hands are warm.

Ginger shivers, shifting on his feet, swaying forward a little.

"Come on," Tim says, voice slightly irritated. Maybe. Maybe not. "Come here. Okay?"

Ginger hesitates, then nods, leaning back. Tim hums, content, and starts rubbing at his skin and muscles, covering his neck and throat with his broad palms.

Which feels...

Ginger didn't expect Tim's hands to feel like that. Ginger looks in the distance, trying to see if the bus is finally coming to pick them up. 

And it might be, but he can't see a thing. It's already dusk, and with snow this heavy it feels like he is almost blind.

"Better?" Tim breathes out close to his ear. 

It is.

It is really good and Tim's fingers that are drawing circles on his skin feel really nice and also his neck is no longer cobalt, which it never was, but... That wind and snow that were biting him are still there, but it isn't overwhelming anymore. That wind and snow aren't the only thing he can think of now. Now, with Tim's warm hands around his neck.

When little flakes of snow graze him, there is almost no sting, and they melt instantly under or between Tim's fingers.

"Yeah," Ginger says, a bit too quiet. "Yeah, it is. Thanks."

Tim hums, smiling - maybe - and keeps his hands where they were.

Ginger licks his lips. He tries to shift, to step away a little, so that Tim would understand it isn't necessary, that he's fine and the bus will be here soon, so that Tim'd stop and then they'd just stand there near the wall side by side, like they did before. 

He tries, but Tim only leans even closer, when he moves, his fingers still rubbing at his skin, his nape, his neck and...

Tim presses on his vertebrae, as if attempting to make them roll, his fingers diving deeper, under the hem of his T-shirt, warming up his shoulders, and it sends charges, down his arms, all the way to his own hands he keeps tucked in his pockets, and up his neck, his nape, even temples, that tingling feeling under his hair.

He makes a sound.

"That good?" Tim asks, repeating the motion, fingers sure and warm.

It is.

"Y-yeah," Ginger nods. "Yeah. You've... You have nice hands."

Tim smirks, a short burst of air brushing against his ear, and keeps moving his fingers, that cold sensation that was spreading through his body gone, Tim rubbing gently at the sore spots that apparently were there, warm and sure and pleasant, running his palms over the skin, just touching him.

Ginger swallows, opening his mouth.

"Uhm..."

"Yeah? Not too hard, is it?"

It isn't. It's actually kind of perfect, and that is what he tried to ask about. Probably.

"No, no. It's really nice. I uh... Just wanted to..."

"Yeah?"

Ginger licks his lips, briefly thinking if he has lip balm in his bags back on the bus.

"Do you... Like. It's really good... Do you know how to do it?"

Tim is silent for a second, so Ginger wonders if he even understood what he was asking. He shifts, trying to look at Tim over his shoulder and maybe explain what he meant.

"Like, professionally?" Tim asks, voice loud in Ginger's ear. Ginger almost jumps. "No. Like, I maybe read some shit about it, but that's it. Never been a masseur."

Ginger laughs, feeling a bit awkward. Now that Tim's answered, the question seems ridiculous to him.

"Yeah, I..." he starts, about to apologize.

"But I guess I've had a lot of practice," Tim adds, interrupting him, because he didn't even hear he was speaking, most likely. "I'm a bit grabby, to be honest. Always touch people. So like... I'd better be good at it, you know?"

Ginger laughs again, shoulders moving under Tim's hands.

"You... You are. It's really nice."

Tim hums, his thumbs sliding up the sides of his neck, palms on his throat. When Ginger speaks, he feels vibration created by his own voice reflected off them.

"Thanks," Tim says. "People don't generally complain, so maybe I am. And it sure helps you go a long way. You know, a massage in the evening and breakfast in bed in the morning, and then your guests are so happy it's like free advertising and their friends come and visit too." Tim's voice drops low, tone a bit conspiratorial, suggestive, and then he chuckles. "Sorry. That's probably oversharing."

Ginger smiles, looking down, wondering if he's blushing. And if he is - if Tim can see that. 

"It's okay," he says. "I'm not..."

"Cool," Tim says, his hands brushing against his earlobes, Tim catching them between his fingers, pulling slightly, then scratching at his nape a bit, under his hair. "Glad you like it."

He does.

He's no longer cold, he's really warm right now, even hot under his jacket, and this is very, very pleasant, but it's not something he ever thought would happen and maybe somewhat strange - not in a bad way - and he expects Tim to stop any second, because he's no longer cold and Tim must feel it and it is not even a massage anymore, Tim's just running his palms and fingers over his neck and throat and shoulders, tracing his jawline, rubbing at his earlobes, scraping at the back of his neck, touching the strands of hair. 

Tim's doing all of that and Tim doesn't stop.

The bus is nowhere in sight, not that he can see anything, not even the road in front of them, not really. It's darker now and it's still snowing.

It feels like since the last time he said something a few years have passed.

Tim runs his knuckles over his vertebrae, pressing a little, and he shivers, that tingling feeling rolling over him again.

"Uhm..." he says.

Tim moves behind him abruptly, as if shaking, and makes a sound, and Ginger wonders if he startled him.

"Yeah? What?"

Tim pulls him even closer, chin almost on his shoulder, arms pressed flat to his back.

"Is it..." he starts, not sure what it is he tries to say. Something. "Uhm." He swallows and clears his throat. "Is it cold in winter? In Sweden, I mean."

Tim laughs, sound coming out low, thick.

"God, just relax," he says, leaning back a bit, the motions of his hands on his neck again becoming more determined, his palms sliding up and down. "It's fine. There is no need for fucking small talk."

Ginger exhales a short laugh, feeling his body tense up for a second, and turns his head to glance at Tim.

"Okay," he says, Tim running the backs of his palms down his neck, to his clavicles. "I just... I'm really interested. Like, how it's there and..."

"Oh," Tim says, his hands disappearing off his neck entirely for a moment. "Well, we don't do small talk much in there." Ginger feels his fingertips drawing lines on the back of his neck. "We lock our trashbins, pay a fuckload of taxes and go drink ourselves dead to Denmark which we passionately hate. Donno. Something like it." Tim wraps his hands around his neck again, thumbs on his nape. "Oh, and winter is... Dull, mostly. Dark. I mean, the sea is pretty nearby and there is the Gulf Stream and so on, so it isn't like this usually. You know, that continental or oceanic climate shit."

"Oh," Ginger says, nodding. "I uh... I see." Not that he actually understands much at the moment. He thinks he saw some lights in the distance a bit earlier, but it's still just blizzard and nothing else. Wind and snow and Tim's palms on his exposed skin. "Do you... Do you like it? The cold."

Tim hums, spreading his fingers on his throat.

"Depends. There're different types of cold."

Ginger swallows and smiles.

"Yeah, sure..."

"But like, this is fine. I wouldn't go sunbathing in this weather, but it's okay." Ginger laughs a bit and shivers, Tim's fingers finding his earlobes again. "You know what I hate though?" Ginger makes a sound. Tim leans closer, chest to his back. "When it's like just above the freezing point and wet. And grey. And windy. Like in a sneaky way windy, not like this. This is proper windy. Like a punch, you know. Which I can at least respect. That sneaky shit that is literally everywhere, like even in your pubes and nose hair, is just... Like shoving a spadeful of ice cubes in your pants while you sleep. Fuck. Fucking hate it." Tim laughs at his own words, his body that's gone tense in the last few seconds relaxing. "I really do. More than Denmark."

Ginger laughs too, and Tim's hands start moving on his neck again after a short pause. 

"That shit used to happen a lot where I am from," Tim adds, fingers tracing his clavicles. "Months and months of sudden ice cubes in your pants."

Ginger bites his lips, silent for some time, looking into the darkness of the road, snow stinging his face, melting on Tim's fingers.

"You didn't like it there? In..." He trails off, realizing he's forgotten the name of the town. "In your..."

"In my fucking village?" Tim says, cupping the back of his neck, palm moving up and down and up again, fingers in his hair. "It's a village." Ginger feels Tim shrugging. "Like, boring houses and shit. A church nobody goes into, a school you're stuck at and a local shop all other eight people who live there are crammed into to gossip and gulp down coffee. And two of them are in your shitty band." Ginger starts laughing too, hearing Tim's chuckling, and Tim pulls him closer. "Just a village. Think residential area, just separate from the city. Where everybody works and then goes back to have their peace and quiet in the house that looks just the same as their neighbour's. Not that Skövde is a bustling Swedish Vegas or anything... But I guess we also like our peace and quiet in there even though it's pretty calm everywhere."

Ginger shifts, Tim's fingers pulling gently at the strands on his nape, hand turning, another moving slowly on his throat.

"Sounds like..." he says and pauses, looking down. "You didn't want to live there? Or..."

He tries to glance at Tim over his shoulder, but stops mid-motion.

"Nah, it was fine," Tim responds, dropping his hand to trace the vertebrae. "Skövde is okay. It's small, but it's alright. The village is just a village. Just houses and that's it. And it's not like I... I mean, I was just a kid. So... But yeah, Skövde's fine. Which is where you go like half of the week. It's an okay town. I didn't mind much. Just maybe..."

"Yeah?"

"Not enough space?" Tim offers, voice a bit uncertain. "Sounds kinda weird, with all the fucking fields and forests and only eight people living there. But yeah. Kinda felt... confined. Like you know, on a tiny stage? Like a really, really tiny stage. Where you turn with your guitar and knock off the poor drummer's kit."

Ginger laughs, shoulders shaking under Tim's palms. Tim huffs out a chuckle too and leans in, hugging him.

"So you..." Ginger says, feeling Tim's temple pressed to his cheek. "You like it when the stage is big, right?"

"Uh-huh," Tim hums, nodding just a little, chin on his shoulder. "Not like huge, but... Manson's is usually great. I mean, I can actually move there, so. Small is only okay when I'm like by myself. With a band... Yeah, big is better."

"Oh," Ginger breathes out.

"What about you?" Tim asks, pulling away, collecting the strands of his hair in his palm and letting go, hand slipping under them as they fall. "Big or small?"

Ginger shrugs.

"I think... I think I like small ones more, probably. I uh..." he pauses, licking his lips. He hears Tim's lighter flicking, the smell of tobacco hitting his nose, Tim exhaling the smoke.

"Yeah?" Tim asks, putting both hands around his neck again.

"Uhm. The big stage is kinda... God, It's weird."

"So?" Tim says, words slurred. Ginger understands he's holding the cigarette with his teeth. "I've just rambled about ice cubes and coffee for six hours. Go on."

He lets go of his neck to take a drag, another hand rubbing at the back of it, fingers warming up the muscles, pulling gently at the skin.

"Okay," Ginger says. "Uhm. I just feel... You know, when the stage is really big, I feel like I'm... Donno, like forgotten there? At the back. Like nobody even knows that I'm there." He shakes his head, the smoke tickling his nostrils. Tim offers him the cigarette and he takes a drag, Tim holding it. "It's like... I mean, it's not like I want everybody to surround me or something. I don't think I want that." He laughs a little, both Tim's hands landing on his neck once more. "But... Sometimes it feels too wide and I am like at the very back and also behind the kit and nobody comes close enough to me. Unless it's Manson throwing stuff at me." Tim chuckles, takes a drag, fingers playing with his hair. "So yeah... If it's too big, I feel kinda weird. Like I'm not even there. God, it's stupid."

"It's not," Tim says, giving the cigarette to him. 

"I'm behind the _drum kit_ ," Ginger says, just holding the cigarette between his fingers, Tim's palm on the side of his neck. "It's loud. Everybody knows I'm there."

"Everybody knows there is _somebody_ there," Tim says, thumb rubbing at his vertebrae, moving up and down. "It's not the same." 

Ginger takes a drag and gives the cigarette back to him.

"Maybe," he says.

"How about when we are at a huge stage I'll come hang out with you sometimes?" Tim offers, finishes the cigarette. "Like turn to you and play by your kit. So that you'd get to look at something else but our butts, you know."

Ginger laughs, shaking, his shoulders and his head. Tim pulls him closer again, hugs him.

"Thanks," Ginger says. "Okay. That... God, it's still dumb."

"Nah," Tim says, lifting his hand and wrapping his palm around his throat. "It's just a feeling. It's okay. You know, it's like... Do you know what _hygge_ is?"

"Uhm. Not sure. Is it something Swedish?"

"Danish," Tim says, smirk audible in his voice. "But yeah, we have some similar shit. And the German too and the Dutch have this... God, always forget that word. Gez-something. Like, they use it for people too." He pauses, shifting behind Ginger, both hands around his neck, thumbs brushing the hair away. "Anyway, the Danish one is the most famous, I guess. It's like... about feeling cozy. But like a whole concept. With a bunch of stuff tied together. Like the place and the people you're with and the temperature, the lighting and the number of pillows on the fucking sofa." 

"Oh," Ginger says, Tim's thumbs sliding down, along his neck and shoulders. "No, I haven't... Haven't heard of it."

"Okay," Tim says. "Well, as I said, it's like an idea of being cozy. And it's mostly common in cold countries. And it's different, like in one country it would be one thing and in another... Well, there is usually a thing about being warm, because like what crazy person would want to freeze and so on. But some shit is different. Like, it could be a lot of soft fluffy stuff and a fireplace or old things, like chairs and, donno, clocks, and in some countries people prefer to be more secluded, like to hide a bit, and sometimes it's about not having too much around, like, having just enough. That would be the Swedish one, I guess. And it's usually about having friends or relatives around and stuff that's familiar. And again, sometimes it should be like dark and shit, closed curtains and maybe candles, sometimes the opposite, like the more light there is the better and no curtains at all so that you can sit there under your blanket with your cup of warm milk or something and look at the fuckers who're covered in snow up to their ears walking outside and they can see you and like... envy you? Donno." Tim is silent for a few seconds, fingers no longer dancing randomly over his skin, Tim running them down his vertebrae, sliding his palms around his neck, moving closer. "Fuck, did I make any sense?"

Ginger nods.

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. I think I got it."

Tim chuckles.

"What I meant to say is that it's a feeling, you know. Which are usually weird and all over the place and just... Interconnected with stuff that has nothing to do with anything. Like how much jam and gravy there is on the plate with your meatballs." He hugs Ginger, putting his chin on his shoulder again, both hands on his neck. "Like all sorts of bullshit can make you happy. And it's nothing stupid. Just a feeling."

They are both silent for a while.

Ginger looks in the distance through the snow and shivers, when he sees the lights appearing in the darkness. 

"That Swedish coziness," he says, a bit too sudden and too fast, turning his head to glance at Tim.

" _Lagom_."

"Does it make you... Do you like it?"

When Ginger looks at the road again, the lights are gone. There is just snow and wind and darkness. And Tim's warm hands on his skin.

Tim shrugs.

"No, I don't think so," he pauses, thinking. His fingers run along the clavicles, then his palm covers Ginger's throat. "You know, it's not about the place and how everything's arranged and the fucking windows, I don't think so. Like, feeling good and... belonging? It's not about that. I mean, my bladder's gonna burst any second and I don't have feet anymore and we've waited for that fucking bus for what, close to a month now, and I am tired and there is no warm or cold milk around here. But... I feel alright? It's the shittiest weather I've seen in the last ten years, but I feel fine. It's pretty cozy. So fuck lagom. Fuck hygge. It's..." Tim leans in, pressed to him with his whole body, hands on his neck and chest, chin on his shoulder, nose in his hair. "It's about making it nice yourself. Being happy wherever you are. Making others feel okay too. Donno. Maybe that's bullshit too." He chuckles softly. "But I... I feel really great right now. That's what I know for sure. That's it. That's what matters."

Tim stops speaking, breath warm and even, touching his face.

Ginger doesn't respond and closes his eyes.

  
When in June the bus finally picks them up, opening its doors for them to save them from the unusually snowy, windy, freezing summer day, and Ginger sways sleepily, stepping on the stairs and trying to get in, the insides of the bus bright and loud, smelly, he feels Tim's hand on his back, sure and gentle, just like it was on his neck, he feels it touching him, Tim touching him and he feels...

Tim has really nice hands.

He feels them.

________________________________________________________________________


End file.
